Stage Two
by Antirrhinum
Summary: "Operation Nora... Stage one complete." But stage two is not so far behind... and stage two holds dark requirements... consequences.


So arduous had the task seemed upon approach. Two steps back, it was a feat to accomplish, one step closer, it grew smaller. And standing on the pedestal, barriers smashed and disposed, the task dropped its arduous status, morphing into simplicity.

It was the rage, the fury, the _thirst _for vengeance that quenched his throat dry. All the while, his fingers tremble, but what was once hesitant is now replaced with ire. He feels the disdain and hate slush in his stomach as aquamarine hues glaze down at the once strong 'hero'. The _nerve _of that arrogant _bastard_… To simply _smile_, not give a damn about the consequences.

All the lives that had been lost that day on the Purge... The bodies that were tossed as if they were rag dolls, plummeting into an endless abyss... Among them was his mother...

...and it was _Snow's _fault.

The surroundings are dark, a reflection to the hollowness and negativity that pulsates through his veins. The ground is a pressed tan, an array of tiles, yet not a piece of scenery is given. His vision consists of the blackness, the ground, and the weakened form at his feet. Not a single regard is given towards the stab wounds that litter the man's body. The very sight, the grunts of pain as he struggles to get up fills Hope with the sadistic fuel he needs to complete this task

_(it's too far, you can't turn away now)_

and suddenly, he's on his knees, crouching down to Snow, not the other way around.

Lithe digits enveloped by leather fabric grasp the hilt tighter, tapping the blade against the ground thoughtfully. A sigh passes pallid lips before the words start to form in his mouth, the final words Snow would hear before it would all be over for the self-proclaimed _hero_...

"People die..."

_his tone is apathetic, dry._

"...and you just run away."

The words are like suicide, falling from his mouth, slamming against the ground. To Hope, they don't feel suicidal, but to Snow, he practically _hears _the bodies of words hit the floor. If he wasn't horrified then, he was now. To him, this wasn't Hope – this was one of the many who detested him, hated him... The difference pointed at the boy; he was the only one who retaliated.

Scenes flash briefly, and there's a flash of silver followed by two distinguishable cries:

One filled with utter rage,

the other coated in agony.

A blade stands erect from Snow's chest, buried to the hilt. The hand that grasped the weapon does not yield, is unrelenting. There's a sharp _twist_, the squelching of oozing liquid and flesh meshing together in a grotesque melody, and another cry joins the symphony.

"Nora... Estheim..."

He grits the name out, tears suddenly fighting for room in his eyes. He feels them coming, feels the heat and pressure, but he refuses to let one drop...

...yet he fails.

He rips, _yanks and tears, _the weapon from Snow's body. The silver meshed with sanguine, is free, air lightly running her fingers along its form. It is one of the few contacts that does not consist of hate, pain, or agony – it yearns for wind's touch, it _yearns _for a soft and caring hand.

..._it's a weapon._

The knife's freedom from the clenched walls of skin is short lived before it's driven into a new section of flesh—

-a neck.

A scream – _something _– is cut off by a choking noise, a _gurgle_. The red bubbles from his mouth, falling in rivulets along the sides of his face... Copper red paints once pallid lips a deep rouge, never to be cleaned again.

There are tears – from both parties.

Yet, like before, they are not acknowledged.

"And she _died _because of _you!_"

It's with a final, good measure where the steel scoops into the thick, wet log of peeling flesh. Somewhere along the way, it lodges itself in the depths, unable to reach the other end. The hilt will not be pushed further, no matter how much pressure is applied.

The boy stands, looking down at the handiwork – _his _doing.

Seconds – minutes – drip by, and eventually, reality treads at the back of his mind. He feels something clench in his chest, feels the bile mounting in his throat, feels the sudden _sting _of tears, the sudden feeling that _this is __**wrong, absolutely wrong**_—

A warm scream bursts from his throat.

_Operation Nora. Stage 2: Complete._

* * *

**_note: _**I... I have no fucking clue what I just wrote. Just grammar study and... angst._  
_


End file.
